Part 23

“I will remember,” sobbed Blanche; “I will remember. But the child----”

“Ah! I was afraid--cowardly creature that I was! I dreaded the shame--then Maurice insisted--I sent my child away--your jealousy and my death are the punishment of my weakness. Poor child! abandoned to strangers! Wretched woman that I am! Ah! this suffering is too horrible. Blanche, remember----”

She spoke again, but her words were indistinct, inaudible. Blanche frantically seized the dying woman’s arm, and endeavoured to arouse her. “To whom have you confided your child?” she repeated; “to whom? Marie-Anne--a word more--a single word--a name, Marie-Anne!”

The unfortunate woman’s lips moved, but the death-rattle already sounded in her throat; a terrible convulsion shook her frame; she slid down from the chair, and fell full length upon the floor. Marie-Anne was dead--dead, and she had not disclosed the name of the old physician at Vigano to whom she had entrusted her child. She was dead, and the terrified murderess stood in the middle of the room as rigid and motionless as a statue. It seemed to her that madness--a madness like that which had stricken her father--was working in her brain. She forgot everything; she forgot that some one was expected at midnight; that time was flying, and that she would surely be discovered if she did not fly. But the man who had entered the house when she cried for help was watching over her. As soon as he saw that Marie-Anne had breathed her last, he pushed against the door, and thrust his leering face into the room.

“Chupin!” faltered Blanche.

“In the flesh,” he responded. “This was a grand chance for you. Ah, ha! The business riled your stomach a little; but nonsense! that will soon pass off. But we must not dawdle here: some one may come in. Let us make haste.”

Mechanically the murderess stepped forward, but Marie-Anne’s dead body lay between her and the door, barring the passage. To leave the room it was necessary to step over her victim’s lifeless form. She had not courage to do so, and recoiled with a shudder. But Chupin was troubled by no such scruples. He sprang across the body, lifted Blanche as if she had been a child, and carried her out of the house. He was intoxicated with joy. He need have no fears for the future now; for Blanche was bound to him by the strongest of chains--complicity in crime. He saw himself on the threshold of a life of constant revelry. All remorse anent Lacheneur’s betrayal had departed. He would be sumptuously fed, lodged, and clothed; and, above all, effectually protected by an army of servants.

While these agreeable thoughts were darting through his mind, the cool night air was reviving the terror-stricken Marchioness de Sairmeuse. She intimated that she should prefer to walk, and accordingly Chupin deposited her on her feet some twenty paces from the house. Aunt Medea was already with them after the fashion of a dog left at the door by its master while the latter goes into a house. She had instinctively followed her niece, when she perceived the old poacher carrying her out of the cottage.

“We must not stop to talk,” said Chupin. “Come, I will lead the way.” And taking Blanche by the arm, he hastened towards the grove. “Ah! so Marie-Anne had a child,” he remarked, as they hurried on. “She pretended to be such a saint! But where the deuce has she placed it?”

“I shall find it,” replied Blanche.

“Hum! that is easier said than done,” quoth the old poacher, thoughtfully.

Scarcely had he spoken than a shrill laugh resounded in the darkness. In the twinkling of an eye Chupin had released his hold on Blanche’s arm, and assumed an attitude of defence. The precaution was fruitless; for at the same moment a man concealed among the trees bounded upon him from behind, and, plunging a knife four times into his writhing body, exclaimed, “Holy Virgin! now is my vow fulfilled! I shall no longer have to eat with my fingers!”

“Balstain! the innkeeper!” groaned the wounded man, sinking to the ground.

Blanche seemed rooted to the spot with horror; but Aunt Medea for once in her life had some energy in her fear. “Come!” she shrieked, dragging her niece away “Come--he is dead!”

Not quite, for the old traitor had sufficient strength remaining to crawl home and knock at the door. His wife and youngest boy were sleeping soundly, and it was his eldest son, who had just returned home, who opened the door. Seeing his father prostrate on the ground, the young man thought he was intoxicated, and tried to lift him and carry him into the house, but the old poacher begged him to desist. “Don’t touch me,” said he. “It is all over with me! but listen: Lacheneur’s daughter has just been poisoned by Madame Blanche. It was to tell you this that I dragged myself here. This knowledge is worth a fortune, my boy, if you are not a fool!” And then he died without being able to tell his family where he had concealed the price of Lacheneur’s blood.

XXXIII.

It will be recollected that of all those who witnessed the Baron d’Escorval’s terrible fall over the precipice below the citadel of Montaignac, the Abbe Midon was the only one who did not despair. He set about his task with more than courage, with a reverent faith in the protection of providence, remembering Ambroise Pare’s sublime phrase--”I dress the wound--God heals it.” That he was right to hope was conclusively shown by the fact that after six months sojourn in Father Poignot’s house, the baron was able to sit up and even to limp about with the aid of crutches. On reaching this stage of recovery, however, when it was essential he should take some little exercise, he was seriously inconvenienced by the diminutive proportions of Poignot’s loft, so that he welcomed with intense delight the prospect of taking up his abode at the Borderie with Marie-Anne; and when indeed the abbe fixed the day for moving, he grew as impatient for it to arrive, as a schoolboy is for the holidays. “I am suffocating here,” he said to his wife, “literally suffocating. The time passes so slowly. When will the happy day come!”

It came at last. The morning was spent in packing up such things as they had managed to procure, during their stay at the farm; and soon after nightfall Poignot’s elder son began carrying them away. “Everything is at the Borderie,” said the honest fellow, on returning from his last trip, “and Mademoiselle Lacheneur bids the baron bring a good appetite.”

“I shall have one, never fear!” responded M. d’Escorval gaily. “We shall all have one.”

Father Poignot himself was busy harnessing his best horse to the cart which was to convey the baron to his new home. The worthy man felt sad as he thought that these guests, for whose sake he had incurred such danger, were now going to leave him. He felt he should acutely miss them, that the house would seem gloomy and deserted after they had left. He would allow no one else to arrange the mattress intended for M. d’Escorval comfortably in the cart; and when he had done this to his satisfaction, he murmured, with a sigh, “It’s time to start!” and turned to climb the narrow staircase leading to the loft.

M. d’Escorval with a patient’s natural egotism had not thought of the parting. But when he saw the honest farmer, coming to bid him good-bye, with signs of deep emotion on his face, he forgot all the comforts that awaited him at the Borderie, in the remembrance of the royal and courageous hospitality he had received in the house he was about to leave. The tears sprang to his eyes. “You have rendered me a service which nothing can repay, Father Poignot,” he said, with intense feeling. “You have saved my life.”

“Oh! we won’t talk of that, baron. In my place, you would have done the same--neither more nor less.”

“I shall not attempt to express my thanks, but I hope to live long enough to show my gratitude.”

The staircase was so narrow that they had considerable difficulty in carrying the baron down; but finally they had him stretched comfortably on his mattress in the cart; a few handfuls of straw being scattered over his limbs so as to hide him from the gaze of any inquisitive passers-by. The latter was scarcely to be expected it is true, for it was now fully eleven o’clock at night. Parting greetings were exchanged, and then the cart which young Poignot drove with the utmost caution started slowly on its way.

On foot, some twenty paces in the rear came Madame d’Escorval, leaning on the abbe’s arm. It was very dark, but even if they had been in the full sunshine, the former cure of Sairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners without the least danger of detection. He had allowed his hair and beard to grow; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to become much stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the neighbourhood, his face being partially hidden by a large slouch hat. He had not felt so much at ease for months past. Obstacles which had originally seemed to him insurmountable, had now vanished, and in the near future he saw the baron’s innocence proclaimed by an impartial tribunal, while he himself was re-installed in the parsonage of Sairmeuse. If it had not been for his recollection of Maurice he would have had nothing to trouble his mind. Why had young d’Escorval given no sign of life? It seemed impossible for him to have met with any misfortune without hearing of it, for there was brave old Corporal Bavois who would have risked anything to come and warn them, if Maurice had been in danger. The abbe was so absorbed in these reflections, that he did not notice Madame d’Escorval was leaning more heavily on his arm and gradually slackening her pace. “I am ashamed to confess it,” she said at last, “but I can go no farther. It is so long since I was out of doors, that I have almost forgotten how to walk.”

“Fortunately we are almost there,” replied the priest; and indeed a moment afterwards young Poignot drew up at the corner of the foot-path leading to the Borderie. Telling the baron that the journey was ended he gave a low whistle, like that which had warned Marie-Anne of his arrival a few hours before. No one appeared or replied, so he whistled again, in a louder key, and then a third time with all his might--still there was no response. Madame d’Escorval and the abbe had now overtaken the cart, “It’s very strange that Marie-Anne doesn’t hear me,” remarked young Poignot, turning to them. “We can’t take the baron to the house until we have seen her. She knows that very well. Shall I run up and warn her?”

“She’s asleep, perhaps,” replied the abbe; “stay with your horse, my boy, and I’ll go and wake her.”

He certainly did not feel the least uneasiness. All was calm and still outside, and a bright light shone through the windows of the upper floor. Still, when he perceived the open door, a vague presentiment of evil stirred his heart. “What can this mean?” he thought. There was no light in the lower rooms, and he had to feel for the staircase with his hands. At last he found it and went up. Another open door was in front of him; he stepped forward and reached the threshold. Then, so suddenly that he almost fell backward--he paused horror-stricken at the sight before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the floor. Her eyes, which were wide open, were covered with a white film; her tongue was hanging black and swollen from her mouth. “Dead!” faltered the priest; “dead!” But this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and approaching the poor girl, he took her by the hand. It was icy cold; and her arm was as rigid as iron. “Poisoned!” he murmured: “poisoned with arsenic.” He rose to his feet, and was casting a bewildered glance around the room, when his eyes fell on his medicine chest, standing open on a side-table. He rushed towards it, took out a vial, uncorked it, and turned it over on the palm of his hand--it was empty. “I was not mistaken!” he exclaimed.

But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first thing to be done was to induce the baron to return to the farm-house without telling him of the terrible misfortune which had occurred. It would not be very difficult to find a pretext. Summoning all his courage the priest hastened back to the waggon, and with well-affected calmness told M. d’Escorval that it would be impossible for him to take up his abode at the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking characters had been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than ever now, so as not to render Martial’s intervention useless. At last, but not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded. “As you desire it, cure,” he sighed, “I must obey. Come, Poignot, my boy, drive me back to your father’s house.”

Madame d’Escorval took a seat in her cart beside her husband. The priest stood watching them as they drove off, and it was not until the sound of the wheels had died away in the distance that he ventured to return to the Borderie. He was climbing the stairs again when he heard a faint moan in the room where Marie-Anne was lying. The sound sent all his blood wildly rushing to his heart, and with one bound he had reached the upper floor. Beside the corpse a young man was kneeling, weeping bitterly. The expression of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe’s entrance. Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house of death? At last, however, though he did not recognize him, the priest divined who he must be. “Jean!” he cried, “Jean Lacheneur!” The young fellow sprang to his feet with a pale face and threatening look. “Who are you?” he asked vehemently. “What are you doing here? What do you want with me?”

The former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised by his peasant dress and long beard, that he had to name himself. “You, Monsieur abbe,” exclaimed Jean. “It is God who has sent you here! Marie-Anne cannot be dead! You, who have saved so many others, will save her.” But as the priest sadly pointed to heaven, the young fellow paused, and his face became most ghastly looking than before. He understood now that there was no hope. “Ah!” he murmured in a desponding tone, “fate shows us no mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, from a distance; and this evening I was coming to warn her to be cautious, for I knew she was in great danger. An hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a wine-shop at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son came in. ‘Is that you, Jean?’ said he. ‘I just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s house; when he observed me he slunk away.’ When I heard that, I hastened here like a crazy man. I ran, but when fate is against you, what can you do? I arrived too late!”

The abbe reflected for a moment. “Then you suppose it was Chupin?” he asked.

“I don’t suppose; I feel certain that it was he--the miserable traitor!--who committed this foul deed.”

“Still, what motive could he have had?”

With a discordant laugh that almost seemed a yell, Jean answered: “Oh, you may be certain that the daughter’s blood will yield him a richer reward than did the father’s. Chupin has been the instrument; but it was not he who conceived the crime. You will have to seek higher for the culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of the country, in the midst of an army of retainers at Sairmeuse.”

“Wretched man, what do you mean?”

“What I say.” And he coldly added: “Martial de Sairmeuse is the assassin.”

The priest recoiled. “You are mad!” he said severely.

But Jean gravely shook his head. “If I seem so to you, sir,” he replied, “it is only because you are ignorant of Martial’s wild passion for Marie-Anne. He wanted to make her his mistress. She had the audacity to refuse the honour; and that was a crime for which she must be punished. When the Marquis de Sairmeuse became convinced that Lacheneur’s daughter would never be his, he poisoned her that she might not belong to any one else.” All efforts to convince Jean of the folly of his accusations would at that moment have been vain. No proofs would have convinced him. He would have closed his eyes to all evidence.

“To-morrow, when he is more calm, I will reason with him,” thought the abbe; and then he added aloud: “We can’t allow the poor girl’s body to remain here on the floor. Help me, and we will place it on the bed.”

Jean trembled from head to foot, and his hesitation was perceptible; but at last, after a severe struggle, he complied. No one had ever yet slept on this bed which Chanlouineau had destined for Marie-Anne, saying to himself that it should be for her, or for no one. And Marie-Anne it was who rested there the first--sleeping the sleep of death. When the sad task was accomplished, Jean threw himself into the same arm-chair in which Marie-Anne had breathed her last, and with his face buried in his hands, and his elbows resting on his knees, he sat there as silent and motionless as the statues of sorrow placed above the last resting places of the dead.

In the meanwhile, the abbe knelt by the bed-side, and began reciting the prayers for the departed, entreating God to grant peace and happiness in heaven to her who had suffered so much on earth. But he prayed only with his lips, for in spite of all his efforts, his mind would persist in wandering. He was striving to solve the mystery that enshrouded Marie-Anne’s death. Had she been murdered? Was it possible that she had committed suicide? The latter idea occurred to him without his having any great faith in it; but, on the other hand, how could her death possibly be the result of crime? He had carefully examined the room, and had discovered nothing that betrayed a stranger’s visit. All he could prove was that his vial of arsenic was empty, and that Marie-Anne had been poisoned by absorbing it in the broth a few drops of which were left in the bowl standing on the mantelpiece. “When morning comes,” thought the abbe, “I will look outside.”

Accordingly, at daybreak he went into the garden, and made a careful examination of the premises. At first he saw nothing that gave him the least clue, and he was about to abandon his investigations, when on entering the little grove, he espied a large dark stain on the grass a few paces off. He went nearer--it was blood! In a state of great excitement, he summoned Jean to inform him of the discovery.

“Some one has been murdered here,” said young Lacheneur; “and only last night, for the blood has scarcely had time to dry.”

“The victim must have lost a great deal of blood,” remarked the priest; “it might be possible to discover who he was by following these stains.”

“Yes, I will try,” replied Jean with alacrity. “Go into the house, sir; I will soon be back again.”

A child might have followed the trail of the wounded man, for the blood stains left along his line of route were so frequent and distinct. These tell-tale marks led to Chupin’s hovel, the door of which was closed. Jean rapped, however, without the slightest hesitation, and when the old poacher’s eldest son opened the door, he perceived a very singular spectacle. The dead body had been thrown on to the ground, in a corner of the hut, the bedstead was overturned and broken, all the straw had been torn from the mattress, and the dead man’s wife and sons armed with spades and pick-axes were wildly overturning the beaten soil that formed the hovel’s only floor. They were seeking for the hidden treasure, for the 20,000 francs in gold, paid for Lacheneur’s betrayal! “What do you want?” asked the widow, roughly.

“I want to see Father Chupin.”

“Can’t you see that he’s been murdered,” replied one of the sons. And brandishing his pick close to Jean’s head, he added: “And you’re the murderer, perhaps. But that’s for justice to determine. Now, decamp; if you don’t want me to do for you.”

Jean could scarcely restrain himself from punishing young Chupin for his threat, but under the circumstances a conflict was scarcely permissible. Accordingly, he turned without another word hastened back to the Borderie. Chupin’s death upset all his plans, and greatly irritated him. “I swore that the wretch who betrayed my father should perish by my hand,” he murmured; “and now I am deprived of my vengeance. Some one has cheated me out of it. Who could it be? Can Martial have assassinated Chupin after he murdered Marie-Anne? The best way to assure one’s self of an accomplice’s silence is certainly to kill him.”

Jean had reached the Borderie, and was on the point of going up-stairs, when he fancied he heard some one talking in the back room. “That’s strange,” he said to himself. “Who can it be?” And yielding to the impulse of curiosity, he tapped against the communicating door.

The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door behind him. He was very pale and agitated.

“Who’s there?” inquired Jean, eagerly.

“Why, Maurice d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois.”

“My God!”

“And it’s a miracle that Maurice has not been up stairs.”

“But whence does he come from? Why have we had no news of him?”

“I don’t know. He has only been here five minutes. Poor boy! after I told him his father was safe, his first words were: ‘And Marie-Anne!’ He loves her more devotedly than ever. He comes home with his heart full of her, confident and hopeful; and I tremble--I fear to tell him the truth.”

“Yes, it’s really too terrible!”

“Now I have warned you; be prudent--and come in.” They entered the room together; and both Maurice and the old soldier greeted Jean warmly. They had not seen one another since the duel at La Reche, interrupted by the arrival of the soldiers; and when they separated that day they scarcely expected to meet again.